Dont Mince Words

I was in the office checking my email early this morning when the guy I report to walked by then backed up and did a double-take.

“What did you do to your hair?” he asked.

“I washed and straightened it last night. Washing my hair seems to be a Valentine’s Day tradition.” I replied.

His jawed dropped open and he said, “What about what’s-his-name? That guy you picked up the night of our movie debut in October? Aren’t you still seeing him?”

“I’m not sure. He sent an e-card yesterday and said he had to work last night,” I explained.

“He lives near you and can’t swing by for two seconds? Oh Marna, he’s got commitment issues. Move on,” he advised.

So, it appears I don’t have a boyfriend after all, but I do have a kicky new hairdo.

I’m not a fan of this holiday, but if you are going to recognize it, do it balls-out-swinging, otherwise, mutually agree it’s a stupid holiday, let it pass in silence, and find a different way to profess your love.

Beans, who still lives eight blocks from me, sent an e-card. Seriously, an e-card, but it gets better. The message had five consonants and two vowels. Yes, he’s a writer, but obviously he had romantic writers block. He had an opportunity to redeem himself that evening when he called. Instead, he insisted he could not stop by and teased me about being alone on Valentine’s Day.

The card and envelope I selected to give to him in person is back in my desk drawer. I’ll use it for someone else next year.

Beans was over the other night and made the observation that my iPod doesn’t have a “makeout” playlist. I agreed that was odd since I’ve loved music forever, was a college DJ, and still kept up with what’s good and current. Oh, and I do love sex. It was necessary I build my K-tel equivalent of “smooth jazz” so the next time we are on the couch making out, we aren’t surprised by the B-52’s or Cole Porter.

I poured through my 18 gigs of music and realized, I have a lot of crap. I have the musical equivalent of getting in an accident and not having clean underwear on. EMS could come into my apartment, look into my iTunes and discern my musical tastes were schizophrenic at best.

How did this happen? I can blame my parents for this one. Dad was stuck in WWII. His woodshop/shed was outfitted with a stereo so he could listen to his big band music…where sawdust meets the USO. Mom, who was 10 years younger, kind of missed out on the normal stuff (early ’60s folk) because she was stationed in Germany. No Beatles or even lighter protest music. She liked Helen Reddy and Engelberg Humperdinck.

Needless to say, I got an after-school job and saved up. When normal girls were out blowing their money shopping, I was counting my pennies and ended up with Yamaha components and a pair of kickass Boston Acoustic speakers. Now I could lock myself in my room and listen to Bob Marley, Joni Mitchell, Heart, The Police, and The Ramones.

Now I’m going through my music library and realizing my upbringing may of been torturous at the time, but the musical influence is very evident by the variety. I have some big band, mid-century blues and jazz classics, 60’s rock, 70’s punk, 80’s new wave, alternative, and a lot of afro-cuban/latin jazz which I total attribute to repeat listenings of the ‘dinck’s classic “Quando Quando Quando.”

I’ve got 52 songs on my “makeout” playlist. Obvious selections like Barry White, Marvin Gaye, Sade, and Bryan Ferry are present. But I’ve also tossed in some zingers that reflect my personality, like Depeche Mode’s “Personal Jesus,” The Beastie Boys “In 3’s,” and the Happy Mondays “Loose Fit.”

Make out with me, love my music. Besides, I don’t know a man alive that can last 3.8 hours to hear the whole list anyway.

Stay tuned.